Thou
seemst
Like
an ethereal night where long white clouds
Streak
the deep purple and unnumber’d stars
Spangle
the wonderful and mysterious vault,
With
things that look as if they would be suns
So
beautiful, unnumber’d, and endearing,
Not
dazzling, and yet drawing us to them,
They
fill my eyes with tears and so dost thou.
Transcribed for Miss
Turner
by her amie
E.L. Raymond
In
future years, when turning to survey
The
happy joys of many a well-spent day
If
on this page thou chance to cast thine eye
Recalling
games of pleasure long gone by
Pause
e’er you turn the leaf and briefly find
A
transient recollection of a friend.
For thee may life’s rough path
Be strewed with flowers
Till life itself is over
R.P. Chadwick
The
Lost Darling By Mrs. Sigourney
She
was my idol—night and day to scan
The
fine expansion of her form and mark
The
unfolding mind like vernal rosebud start
To
sudden beauty—my chief delight
To
find her fairy footsteps following me
Her
hand upon my garments or her lip
Close
sealed to mine and in the watch of night
The
quiet breath of innocence to feel
Soft
on my cheek was such a full content
Of
happiness as none but mothers know.
Her
voice was like some tiny harp that yields
To
the slight fingered breeze; and as it held
Brief
converse with her doll or kindly soothed
Her
moaning kitten; or with patient care
Conn’d
o’er the alphabet; but most of all
Its
tender cadence in her evening prayer
Thrilled
on the ear like some ethereal tone
Heard
in sweet dreams. But now alone I sit,
Musing
of her and dew with mournful tears
The
little robes that once with woman’s pride
I
wrought—as if there were a need to deck
A
being formed so beautiful. I start
Half
fancying from her empty crib there comes
A
restless sound and breathe the accustomed words—
‘Hush,.
hush, Louisa dearest’, then I weep
As
though it were a sin to speak to one
Whose
home is with the angels.
Gone to God?
And
yet I wish I had not seen the pang
That
wrung her features—nor the ghostly white
Settling
around her lips. I would that Heaven
Had
taken its own, like some transplanted flower
In
all its bloom and freshness.
Gone to God?
Be
still my heart! What could a mother’s
prayer
In
all its wildest ecstasy of hope
Ask
for its darling, like the bliss of Heaven?
--H
There
was a time when youth’s fair sun
Rising
o’er childhood’s cloudless sky
Its
bright career with joy began
As
if its light would never die
Then
Hope her future path descried
Gay
with a thousand blooming flowers
The
world before her all untried
Seem’d
bright as Eden’s changeless bowers.
These
were the visions of my youth
And
like the mists of early day
They,
in the sober light of Truth,
Faded
and vanished all away.
Romantic
Hope, too highly wrought,
Had
sketched such scenes as cannot be
And
then enthusiastic thought
Shrank
from the cold reality.
To
see my daydreams melt away
When Truth her magic wand applied,
And
all my visions, day to day,
To
fainter distance gently glide.
This
was a trial, such as then,
I
had not learn’d, alas!, to bear
I
sought the cherub, Hope, again,
But
she had vanished into air.
Then
other and less beauteous shades
Usurp’d
their dwelling in my breast;
Romance,
the genius of the glade
Became
my fair, fantastic guest.
And
then I woo’d fictitious woe,
I
lov’d the solitary sigh
The
luxury of the tears that flow
In
silence from the faded eye.
That
dream of folly, too, is gone,
I
blush that once it was my crime
And
reason, sternly looking on
Condemns
that utter waste of time.
But
shall I mourn my follies past,
If
they have taught me better things?
No. I have learned that time, at last,
Has
naught so lovely as his wings.
They
steal, ‘tis true, our gayest hours,
And
bear our bloom of health away;
Not
evening dews or summer showers
So
noiseless, or so brief as they.
But
then, they teach us by their flight,
To
travel onwards to the skies—
To
reach that perfect, pure delight,
Which
crowns Religious Hope on high.
F.M.C.
New
London, Feb 10, 1832